


being the one who loves more

by Chandrakantya



Category: Original Work
Genre: (I'm so sorry), F/F, Femslash, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Literally me puking my guts out to vent, Monologue, POV First Person, Pining, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, References to Religion, Romance, Self-Indulgent, The Author Regrets Everything, Unrequited Love, poetic prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21586456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chandrakantya/pseuds/Chandrakantya
Summary: Dedicated to all my straight bffs who have stolen my heart. And I love them for that.
Kudos: 20





	being the one who loves more

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Disappointing that this is not an actual story, I know. But I have no other social accounts, so I have to vent somewhere. So basically, this is me rambling, putting my scatter thoughts into words or some shit, whenever I feel like it.
> 
> Dunno whether I'll update more of this, I really want to and I'll probably do so, just not as soon.

  * There's something silent in the way she carries herself, the reserved manner her eyes scan around and darken in passion.



The angles on her face and the corners of her mouth, deep with oblivion. And I stare.

Her lips when she talks and I plead myself to look away, a moment's peace, and listen to the voices in my head, but the heart speaks louder, singing and beating at the tempo of her name.

How her hair falls lightly on her shoulders, brush my skin like leaves breezing in a fall night, the softness of her sweaters when we hug and I long to press closer, feel and want and memorize.

But it is only in dreams where I get to lean without the blank of heaviness lagging behind. Without always crafting spaces made of glass between our bodies and never fully falling into it, shattering our solid ground, because once I feel a taste that's not there, I know the crave in my stomach will bloom more, deluded, pounding.

Her pastel dresses spin the world, goth in neck and tongue, and I hold my chest tight as it contradicts and thumps when she makes contacts with eyes and lips and fingertips and heart shaking together.

Or I hope.

The collarbones sharp against her and her necklaces rest on her throat, puffed, melon dripping and staining lazily from delicate lips.

And maybe it's the right thing to do, look away and blush, think the unthinkable and leave the desire heavy, pushing on my back, tempting like a red devil with green apples, tongue and fangs.

Only because the fear coils inside me, weaves knots of shadow needs and pain-placed concern when her smiles grow and growl and grow closer till I can smell the scent of her breath fogged up against a virgin heart.

* * *

  * We walk together closely, fingers tangled and when I kiss the back of her hand, teasing, an inside joke as humorless as the stake of my smile, the entertainment evident in her laughs as the dedication burning like acid in my mouth, she says, "If only."



And I cease, heart like tides of the sea barely glazing the golden shore of the moon, galloping, and I stay still, for the pictures of honey-like mouth kissing me till I forgot how to breath, find and loose life in deft fingers of hers, only.

But then I whisper, "what if," even though all the if's of the galaxy could rack up in her palms and she'd still crush them, hard, mercy merely swaying and glazing in her eyes, without knowing my heart is struggling in her grip.

It's not on purpose. It never is. It's etched upon fate and even if she knew all the things I'd never let myself to know, the maybe is a certainty of cigarettes put out blithely on the road to the mountains.

* * *

  * Without a care of the world, she walks in the rooms, gleaming, pushing locks of raven and sun behind her ears, painted nails raking on the edges of my last ship.



She serenades the words of her old-worn books like gospels, with food on her nose and thick eyebrows furrowing as she examines and smirks with allure.

Heat fleshing in the shadows of her things and the way her curves sway, leather jeans embracing her hips and the small of her waist. Like a statue, sculpted of faint storm, too loud for its birth, flashing in the fantasies of 3am lows.

And I wish I could sculpt her myself from the beginning, linger on the feeling, the thrill of chance, the adrenaline of keeping my camouflage hidden under pretty pantomimes of labels, the rush of repressed heart beats slipping beneath fingers on soft, irresistibly silky, so, so pretty skin.

Unevenly, choking on perfumed air.

* * *

  * She's so pretty it hurts, as if gods themselves offer gifts and gasping oracles in the place of her dream-like placidity, hands of violin chords.



But the walls cave when the love's too tough and I can't help cave along, falling apart – wonder my position rooted in a cemented throne, safety full of empty lies.

Because I'll walk my way through a bubble, look down on the men who mold objects out of her, and turning my back on teethless knives, I'll do the same, curl my desire into goose bumps.

I want to puke, make myself sick in the stomach, how I gross myself with feeling home in the watercolors bleeding in me, like the predator that slick its way into me, piercing tacitly.

I'm rootless, still shielding and praying, wishing someone won't notice the glance of my eyes on her, chasing achingly, won't see a pressed shadow puppetry, the trace of her mouth on mine and _know_.

The shame hurts, builds like thunders clapping and welcoming the sky, and I keep wanting, keep hiding – keep preserving my throne of flames and crying.

But how can I hold a heart stronger and higher than might fallacies of unknowns, when in truth, I'm the one who poured gasoline all over me, hungry for pitch black, blazing love, and set myself on fire for cursed water?

* * *

  * When I think of religion, my mind is caught in her fingers and she's threading the seams apart, tearing me with rosy cheeks till I preach and find out the way our bodies break and fit, involuntarily into every dip until there isn't an inch of space between them, is any less than holy.



Kisses coating my mouth with copper till the breaths in our lungs grow stale, tiny, tanged cuts weeping, reflecting a smattering of marks and bruises on marble church floors. The godly feeling swelling – caused by an action peppered with reassurances of security, denied long time ago from the substitute that promised and painted itself as god.

Kneading in crevices where sounds travel along like tendrils and whether my heart shears roughly, on prickled skin, the earth still shudders beneath me, starts rising and following the gold, frankincense, and myrrh as they fray.

And when the curtains fall and she'll be gone, away like the aftermath of steadfast nothingness, I'll still – still believe and forgive for whosever do not bear her cross. I will fight the dragons, trembling on the deceitful Ate of her ford.

And when they'll ask why I keep falling, when I know and when I'm not sure, why I go out of my way to make my life difficult, I'll say I'm trying to discover where I'm falling from. The fall's last call is too much of a trap a foolish heart finds solemnly.


End file.
